


Sweet Drops in the Bitter

by raiining



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Ancient Rome, Drunkenness, Humor, M/M, Missing Scene, Oysters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-05
Updated: 2019-10-05
Packaged: 2020-11-24 14:02:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20908850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raiining/pseuds/raiining
Summary: Crowley looks around at the crowd and grins. “Quite the hidden gem! Glad you found this place before it got busy.”





	Sweet Drops in the Bitter

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little something that came to my while writing another fic. Thank you to Nied for the beta!
> 
> Title from “Oscar and the Wolf” by Queen

  
  


Patronus’s new restaurant is loud. There are too many tables and more than too many people jostling and laughing as they line up at the bar. Aziraphale feels claustrophobic for a moment until he remembers that he’s in Rome and Gabriel wouldn’t be caught dead in a place like this.

  
Crowley seems to lean in to the noise. He snags them a table in the corner — one with good sightlines to the door — and puts his back against the wall. Still, for all his paranoia he’s smiling as Aziraphale signals for a waiter. 

“Quite the hidden gem! Glad you found this place before it got busy.”

Aziraphale shoots him a look but it’s half-hearted and they both know it. Crowley grins unashamedly back. Their eyes linger on each otherand Aziraphale has a moment to think _— oh how I’ve missed_ _him — _before a slave appears.

“Two jugs of the house red and a plate of oysters, please,” Aziraphale requests, using a small miracle to be heard above the crowd.

“Jugs are no problem,” the girl says with a shrug. “The oysters will be a while, though.”

“That’s fine,” Aziraphale says. “We’ll just sit here and catch up.”

Crowley lifts an eyebrow as the girl leaves, swallowed up instantly by the crowd. “‘Catch up?’ Have you been doing much since I seen you last, then?” 

Aziraphale thinks guiltily over the last few decades. What _ has  _ he done besides travel from Jerusalem to Rome? “Nothing much. Minor miracles only. You’ve the more interesting stories, I’m sure.”

Crowley makes a face. “Not really.”

“Well,” Aziraphale soldiers on, “what have you been doing since — since—?”

Crowley looks at him expectantly. “Golgotha?”

Aziraphale swallows. “Yes. Nasty business.”

Crowley’s eyes dart towards the door. “Nothing much. Went West for bit, hung around with the Celts. Neat people. Got a summons to come back here, though. Seems things are going to be heating up soon.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale says, brightening. “Rome is certainly becoming a major centre. It’s rather exciting, really, all these people! So much potential for goodness!”

“So much potential for badness,” Crowley says dryly. “Financial inequity, senatorial corruption, blood sports in the Colosseum — Hell’s very pleased with it all.” 

Aziraphale raises an eyebrow. “Physicians volunteering their time to help the wounded, charity flowing out through the temples, works of art and architecture being constructed to beautify the gods.” Wine arrives and Aziraphale pours for them both. “Heaven’s very happy about it also.”

“‘Gods,’ though,” Crowley points out, picking up his cup. “Plural instead of singulair. How’s She feel about that?”

Aziraphale waves that away. “You know it’s all the same to Her.”

“Yeah but the archangels got to have a say about it,” Crowley pushes. “Tetchy bastards, from what I remember.”

“They’re rather distracted right now,” Aziraphale admits. “Preoccupied with this new church that’s springing up all over the place.”

Crowley makes a face. “They would be. Not going to last. That’s my two cents on it.”

Aziraphale hums. “I suppose we’ll see.” He finishes his cup and pours another, holding the jug out for Crowley who nods. “What about Downstairs? How’re things in Hell?”

“Oh,” Crowley says with a shrug, “same old, same old.” He tries to sound nonchalant but his eyes dart to the door once more before flicking over the crowd. “Quite the party they threw after Golgotha.” 

Aziraphale swallows. “Yes, I’m sure.” He looks into his wine. “How long did it last?”

Crowley shrugs. “Buggered if I know. Might still be going on.”

Aziraphale raises his eyebrows. “Oh?”

Crowley avoids his gaze. “Didn’t much feel like sticking around. Can’t get a decent drink in Hell, you know.” He takes a swig of his wine.

Aziraphale clears his throat. “No, not in Heaven, either.” On impulse he raises his glass. “To Earth, then?”

Crowley looks startled. Aziraphale can’t quite see his eyes behind the glasses — annoying things, he doesn’t know where he found them — but they’ve certainly gone round. “Ah, Heaven, why not.” He raises his own glass. “To Earth!” 

Aziraphale leans forward until the ceramic  _ clinks.  _ Their eyes meet. To his surprise, Crowley is the first to look away.

“Another round then?” Aziraphale asks when their cups are empty.

Crowley blows out a breath. “Good thing I’m already damned,” he says, low and possibly not meant to be heard over the noise. He lifts his cup. “Why not?”

  
  


*

  
  


“And  _ then,”  _ Aziraphale says, his words mangled with laughter, constants rolling away from him to hide beneath the table, “he says  _ ‘bugger all this for a lark’ _ and takes off!”

Crowley howls. He laughs so hard he nearly falls off his bench. “He — he  _ — didn’t!”  _

“Oh yes he did!” Aziraphale cries. He reaches for the jug, misses, and reaches for it again. 

Crowley’s heaving, tears streaming down his face. “That sounds like something Hastur would say!”

“Maybe he did!” Aziraphale cries and that sets them off again.

“Oh fuck Satan, Aziraphale,” Crowley manages, when he’s finally seemed to catch his breath, “you’re the only one of ‘em who could stomach it here. The rest of them, the whole — ” he waves a hand Up, “flaming lot of them, they just don’t get it.”

Aziraphale hiccups twice. “Oh, well, it was not Baabiel’s most shining moment, perhaps, but,” he misses Crowley’s glass  _ — whoops! —  _ and tries again for a pour, “I’m sure he’ll be back someday.”

“Nah,” Crowley says and shakes his head. “He won’t, he’ll stay in Heaven and he’ll get more and more pissed that you’re down here, too, mark my words.” He picks up his glass and shakes it in Aziraphale’s face, seeming to forget that Aziraphale already filled it. Wine slops over the side. “They’re all going to be pissed at you. They won’t get it. They’ll think you’ve gone soft.”

Aziraphale makes a face. “Nothing wrong with soft. Besides, what about you? You’re a — they’re all — ” he waves to indicate Below, “you can’t be the only demon left up here, surely?” He leans in, voice dropping. “They’re supposed to be  _ more fun  _ down there, aren’t they?” He sits back. “They’ve got to love Earth. So much to do!”

But Crowley shakes his head. “Nah, nah, you got it all wrong.  _ I’m  _ the fun one, Azira— Aziraba  _ — Angel.”  _ He points a finger at his own chest before turning it around. “Me an’  _ you.  _ We’re the fun ones, they’re all just — just — ” He makes a face. “Stupid.”

That strikes Aziraphale as very funny, for some reason. “Stupid? You’re own kind? Stupid?”

“Not my own kind,” Crowley protests. “Do you see me walking around with an amphibian on my head?” He throws back his wine and then inverts his cup, plopping it on his head and affecting a dour look. “I’m the — the demon Cr _ aw _ ly,” he says, his voice half a dramatic hiss. “And here I am, wearing a mushroom.”

Aziraphale has to clutch at the table, he’s laughing so hard. “You’re a — ! You’re a — !”

“And me and my mushroom,” Crowley goes on, though a smile is breaking out from behind his lips, “are going to tempt you into — into — ” He moves too fast and the cup falls off. Crowley fumbles but catches it, flipping it back over to shove it into Aziraphale’s face. “More wine!”

“More wine!” Aziraphale cries. He picks up the pitcher. It’s sadly empty so he concentrates, and suddenly it overfills and flows over. “Whoops!”

“Bad! Not good, Angel!” Crowley cheers. He shoves his cup under the tipsy pitcher. “Don’t — can’t —  _ alcohol abuse.” _

“Oo,” Aziraphale agrees, closing one eye to nod at him. “Right.”

Crowley nods back and they manage to get wine from the pitcher into their glasses using mostly real physics and only a handful of miracles. “There we go,” the demon says happily, leaning back in his seat.

“Right,” Aziraphale agrees with a grin. He looks up at Crowley. “What were we talking about?”

Crowley thinks. “Not sure. Oysters?”

“Oysters!” Aziraphale cries. He turns his head to look over his shoulder. “Yes! Have you tried any?”

“Nope,” Crowley says, popping the ‘p.’ “That’s why we’re here, innit?”

“Right,” Aziraphale says. He tries to stand up and signal their waitress but loses his balance and falls. 

“Whoa!” Crowley says, catching him. “Careful there.”

“Something’s spinning,” Aziraphale manages, shaking his head and bracing himself against Crowley’s shoulder. It’s a nice shoulder. Solid.

“That’d be the Earth, I’d expect,” Crowley says. He’s grinning, but there’s a quiet shadow behind his eyes when he looks up at Aziraphale. “I hear it does that.”

“It does,” Aziraphale agrees. His voice comes out lower than he meant it to. His gaze catches on Crowley’s face. This close, the demon’s glasses don’t do nearly as good of a job covering his eyes and Aziraphale can see the honey-gold of them easily. “They’ve got a — a globe of it,” he manages, “in Heaven. Shows it spinning. Spins ’round and ’round.” His hand tightens on Crowley’s shoulders. “And we go spinning along with it.”

Crowley’s smile softens. “That we do, Angel.”

“’Cause we’re the only ones here,” Aziraphale goes on. The words hold meaning in a way he doesn’t quite understand. He tries to focus on Crowley’s face and feels his eyes cross instead. “You an’ me.”

Crowley swallows and it’s like the shadow that had been hiding there comes out and waves. “Right,” he says, and he clears his throat. He tries to lean back but Aziraphale’s holding onto his shoulder. “Better sit down before you fall down, Angel,” he says. His voice is rough. “Tricky floors, here.”

“Nah,” Aziraphale says, still staring at the shadow. He wants it to go away. “You’ll catch me.”

Crowley looks angry for a second. “You sure about that?”

“’Course I am,” Aziraphale says, though his certainty is leaving him. “You’re a good person.”

This time Crowley  _ does  _ move. He shoves Aziraphale off him and back onto his seat. “Sober up, Angel,” he says tightly. “You’re drunk.”

“I don’t want to,” Aziraphale pouts. Maybe whines. He doesn’t care, though — Crowley isn’t looking at him anymore. “I like wine. I like Rome. I like — ” He waves a hand, except it’s the hand holding his cup and something wet sloshes over the side  _ “ — humans!”  _

That makes Crowley smile. It’s a small, sad smile, but it’s there. 

Aziraphale grins at it. “Don’t you?”

“Don’t I what?” Crowley asks.

“Like humans.”

“I like their alcohol,” Crowley prevaricates. He picks up the jug and pours them both another round. Their waitress still hasn’t come back. Crowley glances around as if looking for her. “Marvelous invention, alcohol.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale agrees happily. “Never would have thought of that on our own.”

“Heaven?”

Aziraphale gestures. “Any of us. Supper— studer—  _ supernatural  _ creatures, I mean. Heaven or Hell. Angels. Fallen or otherwise.” 

“That’s true,” Crowley muses. “A purely human invention. Marvellous creatures. Wonder what they’ll come up with next?” 

Aziraphale feels like the shadow has turned around and looked at him. He can feel it passing over his face. “So long as it’s not new and exciting ways of killing each other,” he says darkly. There’s a glass in his hand. He lifts it. Gulps. “Could do without a decade or two of that.”

Crowley stares at him. Aziraphale doesn’t care what anyone says, that’s  _ compassion  _ in his gaze. “True enough,” the demon says, finally. “Too good at it, they are.”

Aziraphale nods. “They are at that.” He doesn’t mean to think of it, but he’s drunk and the image swims before his eyes. “Nails in the hands. Why? A horrible cruelty on top of death.”

Crowley makes a face. “Too right.” He looks around. “It was Rome who invented it, you know.”

“I  _ know,”  _ Aziraphale says. His voice is tight. “That’s why I came here, to try to — to try to — ”

Crowley’s face twists. It’s almost a smile — almost but not quite. “Try to what? Throw in a little angelic compassion?”

Aziraphale sticks his tongue out at him. It’s unexpected enough that it makes Crowley laugh. “So what if I did?” he says, knowing full well that Heaven has never preached  _ compassion.  _ “What about you? Don’t you think there’s enough of Hell in this place?”

“I dunno,” Crowley says, leaning back and looking around the bar. It’s still full, humans talking and laughing and rolling dice in one corner. “I’d say it’s got about as much in common with Hell as it does with Heaven.”

Aziraphale frowns. “But it’s nothing like Heaven.”

Crowley grins. He leans forward and catches Aziraphale’s eye. “That’s my point.”

“Ahh,” Aziraphale says. He feels like beaming, suddenly, so he does. “You’re so  _ clever,  _ Crowley.”

Crowley makes a face. “Stop it. Thought we’d left off the complimenting bit.”

“But you  _ are,”  _ Aziraphale tries. “You can’t get upset about me calling you clever. You’re a  _ snake.  _ That’s — it’s —” He waves a hand, “ — pretty much in the job description.”

Crowley raises the glass to his lips. “Yeah, yeah,” he says, but he can’t quite hide his smile.

“And a  _ demon,”  _ Aziraphale goes on earnestly. “Demons have got to value cleverness. It’s practically a requirement, I should think.”

“You would think,” Crowley agrees, “and yet — ” He put his cup, upright this time and still full of wine, on top of his head, “ — mushrooms.”

Aziraphale laughs. “Yes! Quite the contra— contri— contra _ dict _ ion.” His smile fades. “Not something valued Upstairs.”

Crowley makes a face. “What, cleverness? Leads to questions. They don’t like that.” His smile twists. “Can’t imagine why.”

There’s a bitterness in his voice but Aziraphale is nodding almost too hard to hear it. “Yes! Never quite figured that out, myself.”

“And yet you don’t,” Crowley accuses. “‘Best not to question,’ innit that what you said?”

Aziraphale squints at him. “Did I? When?” He takes another gulp of his wine. “Though it does sound like something I’d say.”

“Right, ’cause you did, back in the Beginning, on the Wall,” Crowley tells him. He gestures. “Right there! I said ‘Or the moon?’ and you said,” his voice twists in a mockery of Aziraphale’s, “‘best not to question.’”

Aziraphale decides he’s getting too sober for this conversation. “Is that what you want me to do?” He fumbles for the jug. “Question?”

_ “No,”  _ Crowley hisses, too urgently for it to be anything but honest. “Course not! That’s not what I’m saying!”

Aziraphale focuses very hard on pouring the wine. “Well, what are you saying, then?”

Crowley lets out a huff and leans back. “Bugger if I know,” he admits.

Aziraphale grins and reaches for his cup. Crowley is too sober for this conversation too. “They do a lot of that here, did you know?”

“What?” Crowley asks morosely. He’s watching Aziraphale pour wine into his cup.

“Buggering.”

Crowley had been reaching for the now-full glass. He drops his hand to the table instead.  _ “What?” _

“They do!” Aziraphale assures him. “They have always, of course, but it’s ever so frowned upon in other parts. No idea why.”

Crowley tips his glasses down as if to better focus on Aziraphale. “Thought that was your lot?”

“No,” Aziraphale says, shocked. “It’s love! Of a short — sort! Least I think so.” He hiccups. “Thought it was yours.”

“Nah,” Crowley says, shaking his head. “It isn’t sex that’s the problem, it’s  _ doubt.  _ You know that, Angel.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale says sadly. “That’s why, I suppose. So many faulty copies of God’s will circling around, teachings on this or that being out of favour. Generates doubt. ‘S why I thought it was yours.” He grins suddenly. “Though some of them can be quite funny.”

Crowley frowns. “The buggering?”

“No,” Aziraphale says, “though yes, actually, that too, but, copies! Words and things written down. Sometimes,” he says, leaning forward, “they get it  _ wrong.”  _

“Humans get things wrong all the time, Angel.” Crowley looks at him funny. “All of us do.”

“Yes, but,” Aziraphale waves his cup. It’s too full for the motion, so he drinks half of it. “There’s this cuneiform tablet I found once, and it said, it said — ” He squints to concentrate. _ “And the Lord said to me, ‘Go and fornicate with animals!’” _

Crowley bursts out laughing, spilling wine all over the table. “It did not!”

“It did!” Aziraphale cries. He’s laughing, too. “It did! It was translated wrong, they left off the — you know, the squiggly bit,” he draws a shape in the air that has Crowley nodding, “and it came out funny.”

“That  _ is _ funny,” Crowley agrees. “I can see why you liked it.”

Aziraphale nods proudly. “I kept it,” he declares, “an’ it wasn’t stealing because I was only helping to protect the sanck — sancti —  _ sanctity  _ — of God’s word.”

Crowley throws him a grin. “‘Only,’ Angel?”

“Well, alright,” Aziraphale admits, “not  _ only, _ but don’t go telling Gabriel that.”

“I would never,” Crowley declares. He puts a hand on his heart, misses, and tries again. “On my honour.”

Aziraphale grins at him. “I knew demons had honour!” 

Crowley drops his hand. “We don’t!” he defends. “Don’t have — nope, nuh uh — ”

“You  _ do,”  _ Aziraphale insists. “Maybe not all those,” he waves a hand,  _ “un- _ fun demons, but  _ you  _ do, Crowley.”

Crowley makes another face. “Back to the complimenting bit. Don’t like that.”

“Why not?” Aziraphale complains. “I like it. When you compliment me.” He blushes. “Not that you do it often.”

“Your head’s swollen enough as it is, Angel,” Crowley says fondly. “What am I going to tell you that you don’t know, anyway? You’re the prettiest angel this side of the equator.”

Aziraphale pinks at  _ pretty,  _ but then the rest of the sentence catches up to him. He frowns. “I’m the  _ only  _ angel on this side of the equator.”

Crowley grins at him. “There you go.”

Aziraphale gasps. “Bastard!” He dips two fingers into his wine and flicks them at Crowley. “Bad demon!”

Crowley laughs, throwing his hands up in front of his face. “‘S true! I am a bad demon!” He grins into Aziraphale’s face. “Probably a bastard, too.”

Aziraphale shakes his head. “No, you’re not,” he says fondly — too fondly, probably. Maybe he  _ should  _ sober up. “You’re perfect.”

The shadow comes back, though Aziraphale had thought they’d banished it. “Am not.”

“You are to  _ me,”  _ Aziraphale amends, hoping that will chase the shadow away. It works, mostly.  _ “My  _ perfect demon.”

Crowley blushes. “I — you — ” He laughs awkwardly and looks away. “If you say so, Angel.”

“I do,” Aziraphale says proudly. “And I’ll say it again, if you want me to.”

“I shouldn’t,” Crowley says, which isn’t a no, so Aziraphale leans forward.

“You’re perfect to me,” Aziraphale says warmly, looking into his eyes. Crowley’s glasses have slipped down his nose and Aziraphale is glad they have. “My perfect demon.”

Crowley stares back at him, silent. The restaurant is still loud, people calling for drinks or food or company, a raucous all around them. 

Aziraphale doesn’t hear any of that, though. He has eyes only for Crowley, ears only for the sound of his — perfect — voice.

“If you — if you say so,” Crowley hitches. His eyes linger on Aziraphale’s face. “You’re the only one who’s opinion means a damn, anyway.”

“Good,” Aziraphale murmurs. He likes being the only one Crowley will believe, likes the idea that he’s that important to the demon. “’M not going to change my mind, either.”

Something like despair flickers quickly over Crowley’s face. “You don’t know that.”

“I don’t know lots of things,” Aziraphale admits, “but I know this. You’ll always be perfect to me. You have been for thousands of years now.” He leans back and shrugs. “What’s a few thousand more?”

“The world’s changing, though,” Crowley argues. He clutches at the table top, his fingers digging splinters into the wood. “I could change, too.”

“You could,” Aziraphale says quietly, “but you’d still be you.”

The silence between them lasts a moment too long. Crowley shakes his head and stumbles back from the table. “I think — I think they’ve run out of oysters, Angel.”

Aziraphale frowns. He twists in his chair to look towards the kitchen. “Have they?”

“Yeah,” Crowley says. He tips his head back so his glasses resettle and straightens his clothes. His toga’s gotten all twisted around while they’ve talked. “So I should probably bugge— er, take off. Maybe another time, yeah?”

Aziraphale doesn’t like the sound of that. “You’re leaving?”

Crowley stops, his fingers stilling. “For the best,” he mumbles quietly. He coughs. “Yeah. Got a lot of tempting to you, you know.”

Aziraphale is quite comfortable here. He doesn’t want to move. He doesn’t want Crowley to leave without him, though. He  _ never  _ wants Crowley to leave without him. “I’ll miss you if you go.”

The smile Crowley shoots him is too sad. Where’s the wine? Crowley needs more of that.

“Nah,” Crowley says. “Forget about me in no time, you will.”

“I won’t,” Aziraphale says stubbornly. He reaches out for his glass and fumbles it. “Say you’ll come drinking with me again? Not — not today, maybe,” he waves a hand, “but another time.”

Crowley hesitates a shade too long, but then he chuckles. It’s a dry sound without much humour in it. “Sure. ‘K, Angel, we’ll go out again. Someday.”

Aziraphale’s tired. He leans forward, resting his chin on his hand and his elbow on the table. He keeps his eyes on Crowley, not willing to look away from him just yet. “When?”

Crowley swallows and looks away. “Soon. By our standards, anyway,” he amends. “I’ll be in touch.”

Aziraphale smiles. It’s sad but he can’t seem to help it. The alcohol is turning to vinegar in his veins. “No, you won’t.”

Crowley turns halfway towards the door. He pauses, face illuminated in profile, the noise and burble of the crowd seeming to slip around him. “No,” he agrees, quietly. “I probably won’t.”

Aziraphale reaches out with one hand. He snags the fabric of Crowley’s robe, feels the quality of it. “Then I’ll just have to find you. I’ll keep an eye out, you know.”

Crowley glances at him. It’s a quick flicker, there and gone. It looks hopeful. “Yeah?”

“Yes,” Aziraphale promises. He lets go of Crowley’s tunic and leans back. “And I won’t change my mind.”

Crowley’s tongue darts out and wets his lips. He nods sharply at Aziraphale — once — and then he’s gone. 

Aziraphale sighs and reaches for the jug of wine. It’s still full, he notices. It’ll start getting empty soon now. “Good bye for now then,” he says into the empty air. “Until we meet again.”

It’ll be a long time, he knows, but it won’t be forever. They’ll do this again.

And when they do, Aziraphale promises himself that he’ll watch what he says. Small compliments, he decides, pouring a glass. He’ll work at it. It’ll get to the point, one day, when he’ll be able to tell the demon that he’s perfect again. When that day comes, Crowley will believe him.

He smiles as he brings the cup to his lips. They’ll get there, he knows. Eventually.

(It takes a few thousand years, but they do.)

  
  


~ The End 

  
  
  
  



End file.
